Not Listening
by walkertxkitty
Summary: Matt needs some time off but all of his friends are too busy talking to listen.


Marshal Goode

**Not Listening **

"_I'm a man that's not afraid of danger._

_I walk my own path. and blaze my own trail_

_because I'm not afraid of peril._

_I won't get in line or be a middle man_

_so screw you; I'll make my own plan._

_And I got respect and I don't neglect_

_the people that I really care to protect._

_Am I a failure if I got nothing to lose?_

_No, I'm not a failure, I've got something to prove."_

**-- **"Not Listening" performed by Papa Roach

**All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.**

**Author's note:** So much seems to have been sacrificed in favor of the comedic story line for "Marshal Proudfoot" (original air date January 10, 1959). The characters' reactions, in particular, seemed off to me. Instead here's my version. This episode, as I have written it, is more about miscommunications and what happens when friends don't listen to one another.

The marshal didn't take sick often, but when he did it tended to hit him hard. It had come on him suddenly, after a long hard day of riding over the prairie. Dizziness and chills had driven him to his room at the Dodge house early. He'd gone upstairs and, fully clothed without bothering to remove his gun belt, sprawled across the bed. Matt had spent a miserable night hoping the spinning in his head would stop and praying that whatever had irritated his innards would either stay where it belonged or leave him completely.

As false dawn receded with the first rays of morning sunlight, Matt gave up the pretense of sleeping. His head felt like some outlaw had gotten the upper hand and buffaloed him or splintered a bar chair over his skull. Yet, to his recollection, he hadn't been in any such altercation recently. He swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, head cradled in his hands, before slowly and painfully making his way across the room to the basin. The morose face that stared at him from the dull mirror did seem to match the way he felt. Splashing his face with cold water and rinsing his mouth didn't help much. The room still reeled around him when he tried to walk. He frowned and tried to remember whether he'd indulged in too many rounds at the Long Branch the night before, but he could remember only having one beer, barely sipped at, while talking with Kitty before late rounds.

_I'm no good to the town like this_, he realized. The marshal, who rarely took a day off and who had often gone about his rounds not too long after being shot up, decided that as soon as he could, he was going to see Doc and then crawling back to bed.

By force of habit, Matt went about his morning duties even while his stomach lurched and the crack in his head seemed to widen. Somehow he managed appropriate responses to the townsfolk's cheerful greetings without any of them suspecting something was wrong. When finally he stood at the foot of the staircase to Doc Adams' surgery, it may as well have been a mountain. Exhausted and queasy, Matt just couldn't bring himself to climb. Instead, he leaned against the railing for a moment, with one boot resting on the bottom riser. _Things seem slow in Dodge right now. I can rest just as easily on the cot in my office and he'll eventually find me there._

The office was dark, cool, and quiet. Matt hung his hat and holster on their pegs and then trudged across the room to the cot. Sinking down on it, he removed his boots. The room spun crazily around him and Matt couldn't suppress a groan. Finally he flopped down, one arm across his eyes and the other across his stomach. The room didn't seem to lurch quite so much now that he was still and he fell into a fitful doze.

The soft click of the latch being lifted awakened him. Matt turned his head -- a bad move, for it caused streaks of light to dance in front of his vision -- and blearily recognized the form of Doc Adams. The elderly physician had a startled look on his face; he'd plainly expected to see Matt at his desk doing paperwork, not lying half dressed on the cot.

"Come on in and close the door," Matt invited with a languid wave of his hand. He closed his eyes again.

Concerned and taken aback, Doc Adams remained where he was. "Oh, well…I didn't want to wake you." Something was wrong with Matt, that much he could tell, but it wouldn't be easy getting the stoic lawman to admit it. Doc shoved his hands in his pants pockets and moved a little closer. Adopting a deliberately casual tone of voice, he commented, "Ain't you in bed a little early today?"

Other times, Doc's baiting might have worked. Today it was the wrong approach; Matt simply didn't feel like dealing with it. He shifted on the narrow cot, trying to get more comfortable, and locked his hands over his stomach. The lawman's mask, the face he wore to most of the public, was back in place. "I'm not in bed," he responded grumpily, "I'm just restin'." Matt closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing the nausea and the pounding of his head to go away.

_Matt sure doesn't look all right_, Doc reflected as he studied the prone lawman. They'd been friends too long for the crotchety physician not to notice the uncharacteristic pallor of the man's face, the heaviness of voice, and the dark shadows under the eyes. _Stubborn, that's what he is. I'll just have to goad him into 'fessing up. He won't take my help until he does. _"You feel all right, do you?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Mat responded sarcastically, wishing Doc would just leave him alone and let him sleep. Plainly the physician wasn't in the mood to be helpful. "I always lay around in the middle of the day like this."

"Well, I noticed you been doing quite a bit of that lately," Doc said, shuffling over to the stove to see if there was any coffee left. "Well, for heaven's sake…."

The doctor's aggrieved tone of voice caught Matt's attention. "What's the matter now?"

"Well, it's cold," Doc Adams groused as he poured himself a cup anyway.

"Don't drink it, then!" Matt snapped, exasperated. He sighed and turned his head to the side, trying to find a spot on the lumpy pillow which didn't aggravate the hurt. The injudicious movement touched off a wave of nausea which threatened to overwhelm him. Matt closed his eyes and swallowed hard as he pressed a hand into his stomach in hope it would calm the uproar.

"It wouldn't taste any better hot," Doc said as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table to look through the wanted circulars. _He doesn't seem too sick, just cranky and wore out. I wonder if there's something in here which might get a rise out of him, get his mind off whatever's troubling him. _"Well, what have we here?" He picked up the first circular, studied it and, seeing Matt's head turned toward him, read it aloud, ""Wanted dead or alive: Jack Pargo for robbery and murder. Believed heading toward Kansas and Colorado, travels with a partner (name unknown).'" Doc put the circular down. "Hey, he's mean looking."

"Yeah," said Matt unenthusiastically. _One more thing I've got to take care of. I don't have time to be sick!_

Doc Adams pushed his crumpled black hat back further onto his head and quirked a smile -- gestures calculated to irritate Matt as he said with a wink, "Well, I can see that if he shows up around Dodge he'll sure get his come-uppance."

Matt threw an arm across his forehead. He knew his friend expected one of his good humored comebacks, but he just didn't feel up to their customary bantering. "I'll take care of him when he gets here." He sighed, wishing again that Doc would just leave him alone.

"Gives me a great feeling of security, it does," said Doc with a facetious smirk over the rim of the cup.

Somewhat stung by the doctor's words, Matt blinked and elbowed himself into a half reclining position. He inhaled, ready to give Doc a piece of his mind, but decided it would only waste energy he didn't have. Matt flopped back down on his cot with a sigh.

He listened to the soft whispering of the pages as Doc drank his coffee and thumbed through the other circulars. It was a comforting sound and Matt dropped off into a light sleep.

It was interrupted only a few minutes later when the door once more opened, revealing a bedraggled looking old man carrying a rifle and a carpet bag. The old man peered around and asked in a querulous voice which grated on Matt's ears, "The marshal in here? "I say, I'm looking for Marshal Goode. He anywhere abouts?"

Usually when someone came looking for the marshal, it meant something bad had happened and Matt would have work to do. Still half asleep and fighting the headache, Matt scrabbled up into a sitting position. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm the marshal." _Marshal _Goode?! _What on earth has Chester been up to this time?_ He decided he really didn't want to know but would probably end up finding out anyway.

The old man stared first at Matt and then at Doc Adams. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Nope, neither of you. Neither one of you's the marshal. I'm his uncle, I'd know him anywhere."

Doc exchanged glances with Matt. _What is this, some sort of practical joke?_ "What's he talking about?"

"I dunno," Matt said innocently, honestly puzzled. On the second try, he managed to sit up. The room shifted and wavered around him as all the color drained from his face and a cold sweat covered his body. _At this rate, I don't know how long I'll _be_ in an upright position._ Bed was looking better all the time; he seriously considered breaking down and asking for Doc's help to get him there but the look on Doc's face told him the cranky pill roller would have none of it. He still apparently thought Matt was pulling off some sort of scheme.

The oldtimer, however, seemed to take notice of the marshal's unwellness. "No, no, don't get up," he said, lowering his voice a trifle. "I just come by to see my nephew, Marshal Chester Goode. You know, that boy made out somehow, he did. Never was one of my brightest relatives." He patted Matt heartily on the shoulder, nearly tipping the big man over. "Eleven nephews, I have, and nary a child of my own. I didn't marry," he confessed in embarrassment.

It finally penetrated Matt's cotton clouded brain that this man had to be a relative of Chester's. He frowned. _Chester's certainly got some explaining to do when he gets back here._ "Ah, Doc, I think you'd better go find Chester."

Doc, enjoying Matt's confusion, hid a smile behind his mustache. "Yeah, I think so," he said and headed for the door.

"Who's that fella?" the oldtimer asked.

"That's Doc Adams there," Matt muttered as he tried to collect his scattered wits. Saying nothing more, he applied himself to the suddenly monumental task of putting his boots back on.

"Glad to know you," Doc Adams replied.

"Wesley Goode," the oldtimer responded, thrusting out a calloused hand for Doc to shake. "Uncle to a marshal, it turns out. Yes, eleven nephews I've had and Chester nowhere near the brightest."

"Is that so?" Doc probed. _I'll have to needle Chester about that later. He's sure to have a conniption fit!_

"No," Wesley responded, "Chester just borders on being ignorant. You know, my brother died and I took the boy in. I don't know how Chester come to be a marshal. I never thought he'd amount to nothin'. What did you say your name was?"

"Adams. Doctor Adams."

"Doctor Adams, huh? Horses or people?"

"What?"

"I said, do you doctor horses or people?"

"Well…well, I doctor _people_!" the physician responded indignantly.

"Too bad," Wesley said amiably, "wouldn't never let a people doctor work on me."

Matt mustered a smile and a chuckle over the exchange. It wasn't too often that someone got the better of Doc in a verbal fencing match. He enjoyed seeing the old physician discomfited. Smothering his amusement with a cough, Matt walked over to the stove. "Better get myself a cup of that stuff." Cold though it was, it might help clear his head and settle his stomach.

"Wonder where that Chester is anyhow," Doc said.

Matt gestured with the cup. "He's down at the post office getting the mail." Sipping the cold coffee, he made a face. If at all possible, it was even _worse _cold than it had been hot. He set the cup aside and absently tucked in his shirttails.

"Oh, good for him. Probably out running down some of those bad men he's always writing about," said Wesley, evidently ignoring Matt's remark. "Say, he used to have an assistant named Dillon. Whatever happened to him?"

Doc, a look of devilish glee on his face, replied, "Well, that's him right there!"

Wesley Goode peered more closely at Matt, who flashed him a boyish smile. "Well, you do a pretty fair job, according to Chester. Says he can usually depend on you."

"That so?" Matt made a mental note to have a good long talk with his assistant. _I'll do it later, when I'm feeling better._ Chester's penchant for rambling and backpedaling when asked for explanations would only make his head feel worse.

The door opened a third time -- _Since when is my office the stage depot? Why do they all have to be in here _now?Matt wondered with growing irritation -- and Chester, singing absently, strode through. "Oh, howdy, Doc," he said, pulling up short. "Well, Mr. Dillon, there wasn't too much mail."

"Who's the skinny fella?" Wesley demanded.

"Chester," Matt said tactfully, "you've got company here." _I can't wait to hear him explain this one._

"Uncle Wesley?" Chester asked in disbelief, seeing the old man for the first time. He patted his uncle's shoulder and engaged him in a firm handshake.

"That really you, Chester?" Wesley asked, returning the greeting and slapping his nephew affectionately on the arm.

"Well, of course it's me! It's good ta see ya, ya didn't ferget me."

"No, no, I didn't. I come to see you, in fact."

"Well, by golly, it's just awful good to see you."

Chester's uncle looked him up and down, taking in the patched pants, well worn boots, and faded shirt. "Well, they sure don't pay ya much, do they? Yer assistant looks better than you do. Why is that?"

The question, for the moment, struck Chester speechless and chased the smile from his face. He glanced over at Matt, who inclined his head and gave him a look inviting Chester to come clean and clear the matter up. "Mr. Dillon, did he…did he say anything to you?"

"Yeah, _marshal_, he did." Matt's smile became tense; although he enjoyed putting Chester on the spot, he badly needed to get these people out of his office so that he could go back to sleep and give his system a chance to get shut of whatever had gotten into it. He swayed a bit on his feet as another bout of dizziness crazed his vision.

Misinterpreting Matt's expression as disapproval, Chester took his uncle by the arm. "Well, now, are you…that is … how about some beer? Would you like a glass of beer before dinner?"

"I could use a glass of beer before dinner," Wesley agreed and the two of them left the office.

Feeling drained, Matt sank back down on the edge of the cot. He sat there motionless, head down, until he felt Doc's hand on his shoulder. The physician's eyes were kindly and concerned. "Finish getting washed up and dressed, son," he suggested with no teasing in his voice. "I'll take you over to the Long Branch for a drink. You look like you need one."

Matt didn't really think he could stomach any liquor right now but he recognized the peace offering for what it was and he _did_ want to see Kitty. By moving slowly and carefully, he found he could avoid skewing his vision or balance too badly. After he'd washed his face, he shrugged into his vest and buckled his gun belt on. "Let's go, Doc."

They walked down to the Long Branch together, Doc smiling and nodding to passers-by and Matt plodding along with his shoulders slumped and his hands dangling limply at his sides. He felt so bad he didn't even bother trying to look as though nothing were wrong. "Well," said Doc Adams, "what are you going to do about it?"

"Do about what?" Matt asked, wondering if he'd missed something Doc had said. It was possible, given the distractions presented by his rebelling body.

"Chester."

A small smile tugged at the big man's lips as he remembered his assistant's hasty departure. "Well, what can I do, Doc?"

"You mean you're just going to let him get by with it?"

Hooking his thumbs through his gun belt, he thought about that for a moment. "That's Chester's worry," Matt decided. "It's not doing me any harm."

Chuckling, Doc pushed the batwing doors aside and gestured for the marshal to enter before him. He couldn't resist teasing Matt just a bit. As they walked over to the bar, Doc said, "Well, now, Matt, you better let me buy." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he tugged at his earlobe. "You're an assistant marshal, you probably can't afford it."

Matt laughed. "You've just talked yourself into it. Hi, Kitty!"

Kitty came around the end of the bar to join them. "Hi, Doc. Hi, Matt." Her sharp blue eyes noticed the silly grin lingering on Doc's face. _He knows something juicy and I'm going to find out what it is!_ "What's the matter with you? You look smug."

"Well, uh…well…" Doc chuckled and pointed at Matt. "You tell her."

"You tell her," said Matt with an attempt at his usual good humor, "you're the one looking smug."

"Tell you what," said Doc, not yet ready to spill the beans, "let's have a drink. Sam, let's have three whiskeys over here."

His stomach turned over unpleasantly and Matt cringed as the smell of the alcohol hit him. He held up a shaky hand and said, "Oh, no, you can skip me. I'm not feeling good anyway."

Kitty shot him a surprised look. _Did I actually hear Matt say that?_ She elbowed Doc and gave him a questioning glance but the old man was too absorbed in gloating over whatever news he was about to impart. _Well, if Doc isn't concerned I'm not going to worry too much about it._

The three of them adjourned to a nearby table and sat down. Matt, devoutly wishing he could put his head down if only for a few minutes, leaned back in the chair with one hand discretely over his complaining stomach and let Doc carry the conversation.

"Now will somebody tell me what's the matter?" Kitty demanded. She couldn't tell from the physician's expression whether it was simply a choice piece of gossip or something which could really cause trouble if it got around town. Doc, cantankerous as he was, wasn't above gloating when something bad happened to someone he considered deserving of it…and he wasn't afraid to tell anyone who would listen that either.

"Well," Doc said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, "I just doubt if any of us will ever see Chester again."

"What happened?" Kitty asked, alarmed. She was fond of Matt's assistant and knew, in spite of their differences, that Doc had a soft spot for him as well. She couldn't imagine Doc being this gleeful if it was something serious but his words belied that impression. Her expression worried, she looked to Matt but he shrugged and gave her an indifferent look.

"Don't expect me to explain. None of this is _my_ problem!"

The smirk on Doc's face grew broader. "I'll bet you he's out on the prairie some place trying to dig himself a hole right now."

"Will someone please tell me what happened?" Kitty demanded, frustrated.

Doc gave Kitty's hand a fatherly pat and continued, "I'm sorry. You see, Chester's Uncle Wesley came to town. Well" and Doc could no longer contain his mirth "Chester's uncle thinks Chester is the US marshal here."

Kitty broke into a burst of throaty laughter just as Sam brought their drinks. "What?"

"That's the truth, isn't it, Matt?" Doc said.

It took Matt a moment to refocus on the conversation. Studying the look of disbelief on Kitty's face, he said slowly, "I'm afraid so. Chester's been writing these letters to his uncle and I guess he kind of let his imagination run away with him."

"Well," said Kitty as she took a sip of her whiskey, "now I can understand why he was so fidgety today. Just where are they?"

"I don't know," replied Matt. "Chester took him out to buy drinks and dinner a little while ago."

"They didn't come in here," said Kitty, sounding a little hurt.

"I wouldn't expect them to," said Matt, shifting around in his chair as he tried to make himself more comfortable. "He's probably trying to hide out somewhere."

"Now listen," Kitty chided, shaking a manicured finger at the marshal, "don't you be too hard on him."

"_I'm _not going to be too hard on him," Matt defended himself. "If Chester wants his uncle to think he's the marshal around here, that's all right with me." _Maybe, with Chester acting as marshal, I can get some sleep and get to feeling better._ He was getting tired of pretending nothing was wrong and wanted his friends to leave him alone for a while. The teasing and bantering just made his head ache all the more, which did nothing for the uproar in his stomach.

Kitty met his eyes with a thoughtful, calculating look. Matt could tell she was planning something and guessed that even if he had felt better, he probably wouldn't like it one bit. "You know," she said, chewing on a knuckle, "it would be _real_ nice if we could think of something that would make Chester look like a _real_ big hero while his uncle was here."

Matt's lawman's instincts suddenly snapped him fully alert. _Uh-oh. Whatever she's about to suggest isn't going to be something I should allow._

"Say," she went on, "you could get somebody to pretend a hold-up and let Chester play the marshal and bring 'em all in--"

_By golly, sometimes Kitty has some downright crazy ideas!_ Matt knew better, however, than to voice that sentiment out loud. He didn't think his head could handle the angry tongue lashing she'd probably administer. Instead he held up his hand to stop her from going on and said, "Just wait a minute now, Kitty. That's carrying things a little too far."

She looked crestfallen and Matt turned away. He hated to disappoint her in any way, but this was something far too dangerous to even think of allowing. "There has to be _something_ we can do to make Chester look good."

"Certainly," Doc agreed. "Here, I've got it. Matt, you're sick."

"Huh?" Matt looked at his friend in disbelief. _I've been trying to tell him that since this morning. Heck, I just told him that a few minutes ago._ He sighed and scrubbed at his temples. Some days it felt like everyone was talking and no one was listening.

"Yes," Doc went on, satisfied with his solution, "I'll tell everyone I've ordered you to bed for a few days. Hmm?"

_For crying out loud! They both think I'm just going along with this._ Irritated, Matt exploded, "In the first place, what good would it do for me to _pretend_ I'm sick?" He hoped the physician would hear the emphasis he'd put on those last words and come to his senses. Matt wanted no part of their schemes; he wanted to go to bed.

"Well, for heaven's sake," Doc exclaimed as though explaining something to a backward child, "then Chester won't depend on you. He won't come running to you, he'll just jump in there and handle everything himself!"

"Oh, come on, Matt," Kitty jibed him, "you've just gotta do it."

"No, I don't," Matt replied crossly. "Staging a robbery…somebody could get hurt. Now I don't mind going along with a joke -- I'll take my badge off or something for a few days -- but that's as far as I go." He rose without excusing himself or saying anything further and started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Doc asked.

"I'm going back to the office," Matt said tiredly. "I don't feel good and you aren't helping matters any."

"Go ahead, go on back to the office then!" Doc yelled, disgusted, and ignored Matt while he applied himself to his whiskey.

Kitty, on the other hand, felt concerned. Matt just wasn't acting like himself and she was certain something was wrong. Studying his face, she saw the stark misery and pain written in his eyes. _He looks bad, like he's been shot_. Kitty couldn't remember him getting into any scrapes recently so she doubted that was the trouble. _Something sure is bothering him though._ "You better get some rest," she said, sultry voice filled with compassion. "You look like you need it."

"Well, I aim to," Matt responded, disgruntled.

Matt never knew just how he made it back to the office. The fever had a good hold on him now and his judgment was impaired. He was grateful to find the office empty when he staggered inside. For the second time that day, he removed his vest and gun belt, tugged off his boots, and collapsed on the narrow cot. A few minutes later, the chills shook him. He pulled the coarse army blanket up around him and fervently wished for sleep to descend.

He'd fallen asleep, one arm draped over the side of the cot, when the same querulous voice from earlier intruded. "Anybody in here?" Matt couldn't even affect a civil reply; he groaned and tried to ignore the visitor.

"There you are, Dillon," Wesley said, coming over to him. "Took to your bed kinda early, ain't ya?" He gestured to the railroad clock. "It ain't but six o'clock."

Being evasive and pretending nothing was wrong hadn't gotten anyone to leave him alone. Matt decided to see if a blunt reply would get him the privacy he desired. "I'm sick, Mr. Goode," Matt muttered. "I feel terrible."

"That's too bad," he responded cheerfully. "You know, Chester ain't feeling up to snuff neither. He's been lolling around my bed all day."

_I'll just _bet_ he's not feeling up to snuff with all the whoppers he's been telling!_ "Yeah," said the marshal without much sympathy. "He's probably hiding." He held a hand to his throbbing head. _Please, just go away and let me sleep._

Chester's uncle, however, didn't seem to get the hint. "Well, it's a good thing you boys have such a dead town on your hands. A lot of people would be up a creek with both the marshal and his assistant in bed." Wesley chattered affably about one of Chester's other uncles and the traits Chester had inherited from him. The old man didn't seem to care that Matt confined his responses to monosyllables.

The door opened again, admitting Doc Adams. _What the hell…?_ Matt thought muzzily. _Why can't people stay out of my office today?_

"Well, how are you, Mr. Goode?" Doc greeted the oldtimer.

"Oh, it's you, Adams," Wesley greeted him. He pointed at Matt lying on the cot. "Got a sick deputy there. Better get a horse doctor to get 'im straightened out."

"Oh," mused Doc with a knowing expression on his face. "In bed, huh? What are you doing in bed, Matt?"

Matt swallowed back the nausea and retorted, his voice slurred by fever, "I'm in bed because I'm sick, Doc. You ever hear of anything like that?"

"Sick, huh?" Doc repeated, sounding pleased. "Well, that's just fine."

"That's what I thought you'd say," Matt mumbled. He rolled on his side and curled up into a miserable ball. "Doc, do me a favor would you? Get him out of here -- take him to supper, anything, just get him _out_ of here!"

Doc Adams had it in his mind to argue, perhaps to tease Matt a little more about having protested his and Kitty's plans so vigorously before capitulating, but the desperation in the marshal's voice decided him against it. _Something just might really be wrong_._ I'll check up on him later._ "Oh, sure. Sure. You know something? Your eyes look a little dull. If I didn't know better, I'd say you really had a fever."

"_Go away!"_ Matt put as much forcefulness as he could into the command. If Doc wasn't going to help, he didn't want him hanging around teasing.

"Now Matt," Doc said, shaking a finger at him, "you stay right in bed and I'll tell Kitty you're with us. Come on, Wesley, I'll buy you a drink before supper."

After they'd gone, Matt lay on his side with his head pillowed in his arms taking deep breaths and hoping he wouldn't start throwing up again. The true meaning of Doc's words had set his stomach churning. He sat up, disregarding the sudden dancing motions of the room. "'Let Kitty know I'm with you'?" he repeated. "Oh, no," he groaned as he began pulling on his boots. "Darned fools!"

When he stumbled through the batwing doors of the Long Branch, Kitty looked up from the books she was balancing and frowned. Matt moved slowly, as if he didn't quite trust where his feet would land and his face was pale except for the redness staining his cheeks. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of expression. "Hi, Kitty."

"Oh, Matt, you look terrible!"

He propped one boot on the seat of the chair and braced himself against the table with the opposite hand. "I feel terrible," he admitted frankly. "Have you seen Doc? Has he been in here?"

"He was a little while ago," Kitty told him. "Why?"

"Well, I've been looking all over town for him. He was with Chester's uncle. I've got to find him." Matt took his foot off the chair then clutched the back for support. "I have to put a stop to this fool idea that you and he had!"

Kitty stood up, hands on her hips and face stubbornly set. "What do you mean, 'fool idea'? Doc said it was on and that you were in bed playing sick!"

"Playing sick?!" Matt echoed, his voice tinged with disappointment and hurt. "I was in bed because I _am_ sick. What about this thing? Is it still on?" Matt closed his eyes; the room was gyrating. He thought he might pass out and his friends certainly weren't giving him any help getting this nonsense about a faked robbery stopped.

"Well, certainly it's still on. It's all set. What's wrong with that?" Kitty countered.

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before opening his eyes. The room, for the moment, had slowed its surreal dance. "What's wrong with it? Now suppose someone comes along who doesn't know it's a joke? Someone could be killed."

Her anger ebbed away as she realized Matt wasn't merely being stubborn; he really did have the safety and welfare of the citizens at heart. She put a hand on his arm, her voice velvety and persuasive. "Oh, Matt, nobody's going to get hurt. And you know Chester; he'll really fall for it."

"Oh, yeah," mumbled Matt, "I know Chester. That's what I'm worried about. Now, I'm going to put an end to this once and for all."

"You've got no sense of humor," Kitty grumbled.

"Tell me where they are?"

From Matt, that tone of voice was almost a plea. Kitty forced herself to ignore it. "You're so bent on ruining a harmless prank, you find them yourself!"

He didn't bother arguing with her. "I've got to find them. I'll see you a little later, Kitty."

Wearily, Matt dragged himself from saloon to saloon and then to the boarding houses. He had just finished checking them and was headed for the Dodge House when he heard two shots, one from a rifle and the other from a revolver. At a dead run, he covered the remainder of Front Street and rammed his way through into the lobby of the Dodge House.

"Matt, come here!" Doc called excitedly. "Do you know what Chester did? He got -- by thunder he got them both!"

With his heartbeat ringing in his ears and his vision blurring, it took Matt a few minutes to process what he saw. On the stairs leading up to the rooms, Chester had someone in a stranglehold and was busily trying to choke the life out of him while his uncle urged him on. In front of the clerk's desk, a body lay ominously still with a dark stain seeping into the carpeting.

"Chester," Matt commanded, grabbing his assistant by the shoulder and pulling him off the unconscious man, "leave him alone."

"Mr. Dillon," Chester said breathlessly, "he…he was robbing the place."

"Yeah," said Matt as he bent over to make certain the unconscious man was still breathing, "I know."

"Matt. Matt," Doc persisted, pointing at the body in front of the clerk's desk. "By golly, he killed him. He's dead."

"Well," said Matt dully, "I told you something like this would happen, Doc."

It wasn't like Matt to assume facts not in evidence. For the first time that day, Doc really looked at the marshal and wondered why he hadn't paid closer attention when Matt said he was sick. The big man was swaying with the effort to keep upright, eyes half closed and sweat pouring off of him. "Well…no, Matt," he explained gently, "you misunderstand. That there's Jack Pargo, the man from the wanted poster."

"What?" It slowly penetrated his fever blurred mind that the joke Doc and Kitty planned had indeed backfired, but not in the manner expected.

"Well, sure," Doc said, "have a look for yourself." Matt knelt carefully and examined the dead man's face. Doc was right; it _was_ Jack Pargo. "See?"

Matt nodded because that was the only acknowledgment he could afford at the moment. He didn't know if he could stand up without help and put a hand to his head, groaning. Someone bumped his elbow. "Chester was right on the spot," Wesley declared, beaming. "That's why he took to hanging around my hotel room. He's got an instinct for these things."

Chester came up to Matt, offering him a hand which he gratefully accepted; he couldn't have gotten up off the floor otherwise. "Mr. Dillon, I think I oughta explain a few things to ya here."

"Chester," Matt said wearily, "you don't have to explain a thing. Just…just do me a favor, if you can, and clean up this mess and do something with the body. I'm awful sick, I'm going back to bed."

Chester followed him out. "Mr. Dillon, I gotta explain somethin' to you."

"No, Chester," Matt said, holding up a hand, "you don't have to explain."

"Yes, sir, I do," he insisted. "I've just never been so humiliated in my whole life. I been layin', thinkin' about it all day and well… I never wrote but two letters to Uncle Wesley and maybe I did stretch a thing here or there but…Good Gravy, Mr. Dillon, he put 'em together and made me out all wrong! But I'm gonna set 'im straight, Mr. Dillon. I'm gonna tell 'im the truth, I'm gonna tell 'im the truth right now."

"Chester," he said firmly, "you do and you're fired!" His voice softened and Matt flashed a weak smile at his assistant. "Now you go on back in there and help your uncle. You know, he's pretty proud of you. As a matter of fact, so am I."

Leaving Chester pondering his last words, Matt wobbled back toward the jail. One last time, he shucked off his vest, hung gun belt and Stetson on their respective pegs, and then collapsed on the narrow cot. Sleep and fevered dreams took him away.

Sometime later Matt became aware of a small hand stroking the curls back from his forehead. The scent of Tudor rose water, starched lace, ink, and whiskey told him it was Kitty beside him. A kiss, cool and soothing, landed on his cheek. "I got worried when you didn't come by," she explained. "Chester said you were sick. Not feeling too good, Cowboy?"

"Been better," Matt responded, glad for her presence nonetheless.

"Matt," she said, tenderly touching his forearm, "I'm awful sorry I didn't realize you really _were_ sick." Kitty shrugged, twisting a fold of her skirt in one elegant hand. "Sometimes…."

"Kitty, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Chester. There's no need to explain anything. This just wasn't one of our better days."

She smiled lovingly at him. "You may be right about that. Go back to sleep, Matt. Doc'll be here directly to check on you."

"Stay with me?" It was a bashful boy's request, a tone of voice seldom heard from Matt Dillon and one Kitty never could resist.

"Of course, Cowboy," she assured him. Kitty positioned herself on the narrow cot so that the marshal could use her thigh as a pillow. Matt's hand slipped over the side of the cot and traced random patterns against her calf. As he relaxed into sleep, the long fingers curled around her ankle and stayed there.

The door opened quietly, admitting Doc Adams. Matt muttered in his sleep and Kitty eased him with gentle caresses. "Evening, Curly," she greeted him warmly.

The physician's posture and expression belonged to a man who had done some serious thinking and found his own actions wanting. "How is he, Kitty?" he asked as he lit the lamp on Matt's desk. The soft amber light chased the shadows back into the corners of the room.

"Matt's sleeping some now," she replied, running her hand over the sweat matted shaggy curls.

Matt, hearing Doc's voice, opened his eyes and gave him a sleepy little boy's smile. "Oh, hullo, Doc," he murmured. "What're you doing here?"

Doc Adam's shoulders straightened. It warmed his heart that Matt hadn't held his unforgivable prior behavior against him. "Matt, I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I wasn't a good physician _or_ a good friend today. Chester sure chewed a piece out of my hide when he came back to deal with that mess at the Dodge House this afternoon."

"'s all right, Doc," said Matt.

"No. No, it's not," Doc replied, swiping nervously at his mustache. "I _didn't_ have a good reason other than plain not paying enough attention. I think we expect too much out of you sometimes." He chuckled ruefully, remembering the dressing down Chester had given him. "Put me right in my place, Chester did. Told me I was a doctor, how could I _not_ have noticed you were sick, and Kitty and I shouldn't have interfered. He could take care of himself and handle his own relatives, thank you very much. You know, Matt, I do believe he could. Don't tell him I said so, but I was right proud of how he handled himself this afternoon."

"He does just fine," Matt agreed. "I told him as much."

Doc set his bag down on the table and laid a hand on the marshal's shoulder. "Enough jaw flapping," he said, "let's have a look at you, son. Well," he said after a gentle but thorough examination, "that's a pretty good fever you got there, but I expect with a few days' rest -- and I mean _rest_, in bed, not sitting here doing paperwork or gallivanting all over Ford County -- you'll be fine. Kitty, I don't want him staying here. It's not good for him. Can you get him to his room and keep him there, make sure he takes his medications?"

She and Matt exchanged a charged glance. "He'll stay upstairs at the Long Branch. I'm sure I can come up with something to keep him occupied."

"All right then," said Doc, embarrassed. He busied himself gathering his things and closing up his bag. "I'll look in on him some time tomorrow."

Kitty couldn't resist laughing at Doc's hasty departure. He certainly knew them well enough to know when three was a crowd! "C'mon, Matt, let's get you out of this drafty jail."

With Kitty's arm around his waist and him leaning on her shoulder, they slowly crossed Front Street. Ever mindful of propriety, Kitty took him up the back stairs. Safe in the concealing confines of her rooms, the marshal's hand slipped down to Kitty's waist. The burning look he tossed her, almost feral, had nothing to do with the fever.

"None of that now," Kitty scolded him, trying to keep a stern face but the dimple in her cheek and sparkling of her blue eyes spoiled the effect. "Remember, you're a sick man!"

"Kitty," Matt responded as she helped him get into bed, "I'd have to be dead before I didn't notice how beautiful you are. I'm not _that_ sick." To demonstrate that assurance, he reached up and pulled her down into his arms. The bed springs squeaked in alarm and Kitty uttered a token shriek of protest.

"Matt…."

"Woman, what you do to me ought to be a crime," Matt whispered as he settled her into his arms. "Now stay with me. After all, I'm a sick man."


End file.
